


"He’s the only one who get’s to call me that."

by ElenyasBlood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bottoming from the Top, Boyking!Sam, Brothers, Consensual Underage Sex, Dean Likes to Watch, Demon!Dean, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet Collection, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Hunter Retirement, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Like lots of it, M/M, Praise Kink, Priest!kink, Protective Dean Winchester, Riding, Sam likes to watch too, Shameless Smut, Teen!Dean, Tenderness, Underage Kissing, Weecest, Weechesters, chubby!Sam, even more Hurt/Comfort, kid!Sam, sick!Sam, tender!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 12,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenyasBlood/pseuds/ElenyasBlood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey there guys. </p><p>This is a collection of a bunch of ficlets I previously released on tumblr over the months and years. I'm gonna add tags and warnings according to the ficlets I add-- one ficlet per chapter. Most of the times there's a GIF or graphic attached, which in most of the cases I don't own. ;u; </p><p>Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Untitled I

Sometimes when Dean can’t sleep he wanders around the crappy motel room they currently occupy. He skips through the channels on the tiny TV, sips his beer, checks the locked door twice and arranges the weapons in his duffel bag over and over again. He watches his brother sleep and checks the door again. And the windows.

And only when there’s nothing left to do, when every gun is polished, every blade sharpened and every can emptied, he drags his body into the warmth of the bathroom, stripping slowly until he’s completely naked, no thin layer of fabric between his skin and the unforgiving mirror – nothing.

He concentrates on himself, then. On his body, the sore muscles underneath his skin, the stretched sinews and aching bones, the thick veins and the gushing blood in it. He listens to his heartbeat, the calm and steady rhythm inside his heaving chest and watches his eyes, the honeyed freckles on his shoulders and the slowly fading bruises on his neck.

He tries to remember a time in his life when his body was not covered in shades of angry blue and dull green, violet and ugly yellow. A time when there were no scars on his chest, no deep cuts and slashes across his tanned skin.

But every time he fails.

He keeps staring into the mirror, watches his shattered shell and waits for his brother to eventually show up right behind him like he always does, huge and solid like a wall of heat, his hands falling to Dean’s shoulders, ghosting over the abused skin and trailing south.

His fingers linger on every scar, every faded bruise, every hack in bones and flesh and together they start counting.

“Wendigo in Montana.” Sam’s hand on a pearly white scar on Dean’s collar bone.

“The hag in Nevada.” His fingers on a deep cut, still angry red and fresh, trailing south on Dean’s chest.

“A vampire in Rio Rancho, New Mexico.” Warm finger tips on a lightning shaped grain across the hunter’s ribs.

“The ruguru in Irvine, Kentucky.” A blinding red patch of burned skin, right under Dean’s arm, and he hisses when Sam trails his fingers across the still sensitive tissue.

“Werewolf in Arkansas.” Sam’s palm on his brother’s belly, covering the four matching scars the beast’s claws had left.

“A Witch in West Virginia.” The shadow of a touch on Dean’s left flank, fingers ghosting over still sore flesh.

“Demon in New Hampshire.” Another scar, another touch.

“Demon in Alabama.” Sam’s hand spanning over the huge cut across his brother’s belly.

So they go on, count every bruise and scar, fingers tracing the damaged tissue, worshiping it and treasuring every new memory.

And Dean lets himself get soaked into his brother’s embrace, eyes closed, nostrils flared and surrounded by nothing but Sam’s heat and miles and miles of golden skin.

And when their voices eventually trail off, swallowed by soft kisses and sweet little sighs, they both know that demons, vampires, wolves and humans had claimed their place on Dean’s body, but that Sam is the only one who ever left his mark on Dean’s soul.

And he’s the only one who ever will.


	2. Untitled II

He had made it all by himself.

It was on a sunny morning, fall just about to begin, when he went into the woods near his house and picked a tree. It was tall, with thick branches and bark that had faced many storms. Its leaves had turned chestnut in the dead of summer and golden light filtered through them, dancing on Dean’s freckles. The tree was deeply anchored to the soil beneath, roots reaching deep, gripping the earth tight, clinging to it. They were dependent on one another, the tree holding the earth in place, keeping it in balance and spending shadow and oxygen; the earth grounding the tree, giving life and a home to those thick, strong roots. For a long time Dean thought that nothing could separate them, but some things weren’t meant to last. The ax in his fingers felt heavy and cold as he chopped down the tree, splitting earth from wood with every strike, until the bark gave up with a sigh.

Dean watched the tall tree fall into a bed of dying leaves and when there was a little tremor running through his body he didn’t know whether it was because of his old age or because of regret.

He had made it all by himself.

He had brought the tree home and it stayed there for a while, unmoving, laying in his backyard, staring at Dean when he sat down on his porch, the wood slowly turning gray in the pouring rain of the upcoming winter until Dean decided it was time. And he started working.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks and with every passing second Dean’s hands became heavier, his eyes growing weak in the dim half-light of the cold season. The callouses on his fingers hurt and he felt a dull pain echoing in his bones every morning, an unpleasant reminder of him being not forty anymore. Or fifty. But he never stopped, never allowed himself to pause, and only when the ache in his back became too insistent did he step back for a few seconds to let his gaze roam over what he had created, what he had made.

He had made it all by himself.

The wood was smooth now, cut into pieces, polished and treated with fine oil. It had seen the light of many new mornings, had felt the sharp cut of the blade as well as the warm touch of Dean’s hands. It had been treated roughly, cut by saw and knife, only to be shushed by soothing words pouring out of the man’s mouth afterward. It had suffered under the pressure of hammer and vise, but every time Dean was there to free it again, unclasping the iron weights that tried to drown the wood.

______________________

It was spring now, the world waking up from its long, dreamless sleep, and Dean was on his porch again. His hair was gray and his fingers didn’t stop shaking anymore. The bottle green of his eyes faded with every passing day and after the long winter his every bone ached beneath his worn-thin muscles. Silence weighed heavy in his ears and only when he reached out to touch the smooth wood next to him, did the storm inside his chest rest for a moment. He gave the empty rocking chair a small shove, made it move as if there was someone sitting there, swinging back and forth with him and for a second it was summer again and Dean could see sunflowers blooming on the field of his life.

_He had made it all by himself._


	3. Hide & Seek

Dad had said “Stay by the car,” and he had meant it, his voice gruff as his hands got hold of the duffel bag. “Stay by the car and try not to draw attention,” he had said and had narrowed his eyes towards his oldest son, brows furrowed. “Watch out for your brother, Dean. He’s your responsibility; make sure he’s not going to run away like last time. Don’t let me down.”

“Yes, Sir.” And then Dad had left and not returned for the next two hours.

It was a tepid evening in Lewis, Kansas, with the sun just about to set in the west. The air tasted like dust, and cicadas sung in the grassy fields near the town limits. The sky was painted in streaks of orange and pink when Dean cast his head back, and the breath he drew in smelled heavy and ripe with summer sun. The day had been hot beyond all reason and the boy’s shirt still clung to his chest, soaked with sweat and smeared with ice cream where Sam had clutched it with sticky fingers.

“Can we play hide and seek?” It was Sam’s small voice that pulled Dean out of his musings and he turned to face the five year old boy, sitting on the hood of the Impala, his feet dangling against the glossy black metal of the car.

“You heard what Dad said, Sammy,” Dean replied and left his spot by the driver’s door in favor of stepping up next to his little brother. “We have to stay and wait by the car.”

Sam huffed out a breath, his face falling with disappointment. “But I’m bored, De,” he objected, pouting.

“Go and play with your Legos then, nag. We can’t be drawing any attention and last time we played hide and seek you ran off and I had to explain to Dad how you could possibly get lost in the middle of nowhere.” Dean sighed and scrubbed his palm over his face, removing sweat and dust from his freckled cheeks.

There was a shadow flickering through Sam’s hazel eyes and the look on his tiny face, chubby-cheeked and flushed from the summer’s heat, became sheepish. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and his fingers intertwined in his lap, his feet stopping to clang against the car. “I know it got you in trouble.”

“’S okay.” Dean shrugged and crammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his guts twisting with guilt. Sam was a kid, of course he was bored beyond belief, and Dean was so tired of being the deadhead.

Silence fell and for a while they listened to the steady lullaby of the countryside: the rustling of leaves and grass, millions of green blades gently swaying in the warm breeze, the buzzing of worn out tires against the road and the distant laughter of a child somewhere beyond the town limits. The choir of cicadas was familiar and calming and when a pair of sparrows, startled from the treetops, raised their tiny bodies into the evening sky, chirping and blustering, the brothers watched them fly away until they vanished into the fiery orange of the burning horizon.

“You know what? You’re right Sammy, we _should_ play hide and seek,” Dean eventually said, and it wasn’t until the words left his mouth that he realized that he really meant it.

Sam perked up and a smile, bright and beautiful, spread across his face. “Really?”

“Yeah, but you have to promise to stay near the car and not to run away again, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Sam nodded frantically with his shaggy bangs bopping up and down before he offered his brother his tiny hand. “Pinkie swear,” he cooed and hooked his finger into Dean’s, their hands intertwining like they had done countless times before.

Dean was seeker in the first round and he clamped his hands across his face and squeezed his eyes shut until Sam was convinced his big brother wouldn’t cheat. “Don’t peek, De,” he demanded and his tiny body vibrated against Dean’s, his voice giddy and rich with excitement.

“I don’t have to, Sammy, I’m gonna find you anyway,” the older boy replied and felt the bouncing bundle of energy leave his side, tiny feet padding away through the dust. Dean counted to three before he dropped his hand, his eyes carefully cracking open just in time to see Sam’s little shape hurrying down a grassy path leading away from the Impala. It was flanked by an ocean of fern and fresh, green plants on one side and guarded by trees, huge and old and strongly rooted in the dry ground, on the other and Dean never felt his brother so safe as he was right in that moment.

Sam’s steps were confident as he headed down the road, his chestnut hair glistening in the evening sun and his little body swaying lightly when he brushed the waist-high blades of thick, green grass with his palms. It was a moment of utter peace and something unclenched in Dean’s chest, his heart fluttering and his lips curling into a smile, so wide and content his cheeks ached with it.

He counted to ten before he announced “Ready or not, here I come,” and then there was a whole universe just for Sam and Dean. And it was made out of dust and warmth and the giggling laughter of two boys playing in evening sun. It was made out of the green leaves surrounding them when they lay down after eight rounds of hiding and searching, of getting lost and being found again, of sweet, sticky kisses Sam showered his big brother with and tiny fingers tracing patterns between honeyed freckles. It was made out of the soft embrace Dean pulled his brother into when Sam asked for it, it was made of the first stars blinking awake on the powder blue sky and it belonged to two boys, who didn’t need anything else but each other.

 

 


	4. Hoppípolla

_He wanted to go outside._

He wanted to go outside despite the pouring rain, water splashing against the ground relentlessly while the sky clad itself in gray and powder blue. He wanted to ignore his brother’s complaints, the reminder to stay where it was dry and safe, and go outside. Because he wanted to feel it all: the little pebbles covering the backyard, digging into his soles, the tickling droplets of crystal clear water against his skin, the cold breath of the whispering wind, the soft mud squelching through the gaps between his toes; _everything._

“Not without your boots, Sammy,” Dean warned, but Sam was already at the backdoor, tiny feet padding against the wooden floor, tip-toeing to reach the handle before carrying him outside.

The kiss of rain was cold and a shiver rippled through the little boy’s body as he jumped into the first puddle, brown water spraying everywhere, trickling away into the mossy ground. The steady purling, _pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat_ , was familiar and soothing in Sam’s ears and he listened to it while racing towards the next puddle, feeling water quickly soaking through his clothes.

“Sam, come back,” Dean demanded from where he stood in the hallway, a steep crease between his brows, but the little boy paid him no heed. He had wanted to go outside for so long and now it felt like he finally erupted from a shell, a skin to tight to wear that needed to be shed; and there were so many more puddle waiting for him.

“I’m not gonna say it again, Sammy,” Dean barked and it almost sounded like Dad. _Almost_. “Don’t make me come get you!”

But the little boy only smiled a toothy smile at his brother, hair, face and shirt wet with pearly drops of rain, the hazel of his eyes matching the greenish-blue reflection of the many puddles.

And suddenly Dean was there, _outside_ , where Sam waited, water pouring down on him. And Dean smiled. “Let’s get inside, you little brat,” he mumbled without heat but didn’t protest when Sam’s tiny hand slipped into his, their fingers intertwining when they together hit the next puddle.

 _It’s so much more fun with Dean,_ Sam thought and watched even more water splash and slosh around when they jumped into the muddy broth, crunched leaves and dead moss getting swept away by the force of the waves they created with hopping into puddle after puddle until their chests heaved with the effort to breath. Water rained down on them and for a split second it washed away the sorrow and grief hanging over them like every 2nd of November.

“One more,” Sam pleaded and beamed at Dean.

“One more!” Dean nodded and gripped his little brother’s hand tighter before crashing feet first into a tiny lake of muddy water, stirring waves and startling a bunch of starlings from the tree tops with his roaring laugh.

And when Sam slipped and fell a few seconds later, his nose colliding with a stone and red slowly mixing with brownish-green, the little boy didn’t even cry. He just let his brother pick him up, cold fabric on heated skin, and buried his face against Dean’s neck.

Sam would never forget the way Dean’s hair smelled in the rain and how his freckles glowed in the gray half-light of the cold November afternoon. He’d never forget how heavy his clothes were, soaked with sweat and rain and blood, and how soft Dean’s voice sounded when he said: “Let’s get you inside, Sammy,” while carrying him through the pouring water.

Because he’d always have _this._

The rain and the certainty that no matter how hard he’d fell, Dean would always be there to pick him up.


	5. Wild horses

Everyone knows who the Winchesters are; those reckless hunters. Brothers born under a bad sign and stupidly in love with each other. Everyone has heard their stories, the tales from the end of the world and their rebellion against heaven and hell—but no one really knows about the final chapter.

They’re old now, retired and settled down in the middle of nowhere. They bought a little house, legally, not with fake credit cards. Things like that don’t work anymore. They’re not on the run anymore; there’s no _next town,_ no next case. And the only trips they do make, are to the local store to buy groceries and keep themselves updated on what’s happening in the world.

Sam has a garden with sunflowers swaying in the soft breeze. Their golden heads greet the brothers every morning when they step on the front porch, the wind whispering in their green leaves. There’s a dog chasing mice in their backyard and it’s a hot and lazy summer afternoon when Dean busies himself in the small kitchen, brewing fresh coffee. The air is thick today, rich with the sweet scent of pollen and there’s a small rivulet of sweat trickling down Dean’s neck when he steps on the porch. He watches Sam, who sits in a rocking chair, reading a book.

A radio is playing somewhere inside the house and a [slow melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhwwCWkmYoc) gets carried outside by the hot afternoon air, guitar riffs and a slurry voice tempting Dean to hum along to the familiar lines. He knows them by heart and has listened to them for what seemed like forever, even back then in the driver’s seat of the Impala, when there was nothing but the empty road and Sam’s steady breath as his company. Dean loves the song; it’s always been a constant in his life. And before he could give a second thought, he grabs Sam’s hand.

"Dance with me, brother," he whispers, his voice almost a plea, and with a smile he pulls Sam into his arms. His grip is not as firm as it used to be, as he slides his fingers down his brother’s flanks, circling Sam’s narrow waist, but it’s just as eager. And if his back pinches a little bit when he coaxes Sam into the slow rhythm he pays the pain no heed. _Not today._

"You okay, Dean?" Sam mumbles after the first tentative steps. Dean just nods, smiling, moving them along to the beat. Their feet shuffle across the wooden front porch, as their foreheads rest against each other. Together they dance, their hearts beating in lockstep—just like they always have.


	6. Untitled III

There’s something about Dean no one knows.

It’s something carefully hidden behind his mask, concealed by quick wit and cocky replies and his gamy badassery. It’s buried deep under thick layers of sarcasm and the potty mouth he wears like an armor, so he’d never feel unguarded in the face of the gray world outside. No one knows about it, except one does.

_Sam knows._

Sam knows how the look on Dean’s face changes when they’re alone in the motel room. He knows the gentle curve of Dean’s smile, his warm hands on every inch of Sam’s skin when he lays his little brother down on the mattress. He knows the softness of Dean’s wet lips, plush and hot against Sam’s mouth when they kiss. He had marveled them many times, had shuddered under their gentle pressure. Sam knows what it means when Dean asks “Are you alright, Sammy? Does it feel good?”, he knows how much of a miracle it is to have this beautiful man being all his, and _his alone._

 _Sam_ , with his shaggy brown hair and gangly limps, body stuck between child and man, chest slender and lips pink. Sam knows the color of Dean’s eyes when he peppers kisses all over Sam’s shoulders, knows the soft little moans that fall from his lips when he’s buried deep inside his gorgeous, little brother. Sam knows what it feels like to be cherished and loved, warm hands cupping his cheeks when their lips mash in a tender kiss, he knows what it means when Dean says “You’re so beautiful, Sammy,” and in what a mess soft, plush lips and nimble fingers can reduce him to. He knows it all- and he treasures those moments, buries them deep inside his chest, locks them away for those moments when he’ll be alone some day.


	7. Coming for you

Sam’s hand clutched the phone after he’d dialed the number.

He didn’t need to look it up, knew it by heart. It was carved into his bones along with the name of the owner.

“Dean?”

“Sam?”

“Yeah, I-”

“Sam, you okay?”

There was a brief pause and Sam could hear his brother’s breath hitching with every passing second.

“’M fine,” he lied and listened to the air rushing out of Dean’s lungs in relief, imagining his taut muscles going soft again as he fell back into the pillows.

“Are you sure? Where are you?”

“College,” Sam mumbled and suddenly he sounded as miserable as he felt, his voice spiking with pain and longing, the lump inside his throat choking him.

“Mhh, okay. What time is it anyway?”

There was some rustling of sheets at the other end of the line and Sam didn’t even try to bite back his tears, hot droplets of grief prickling down his cheeks. He swallowed hard.

“About four,” he rasped and heard Dean cursing under his breath.

“Shit.” A low moan and the sound of a warm palm scrubbing across scruffy cheeks and Sam died a little more. “Sam, you sure you okay?”

“Mmhhn,”

“Then why did you- Sam? _Sammy_?”

And there it was, his whole world in a nutshell, his pathetic little existence on a silver platter and all Sam could do was trying not to fall apart at the sound of his name.

“I-I’m not… Dean… I’m not-”

“You’re not what?” Voice back to alert.

“De-Dean I’m not o-okay, I’m not okay, ‘m not… _I’m not okay_.” Sam whimpered and felt a bunch of wet sobs wrecking his chest until he almost gagged. The tears burned on his skin, felt wrong and tasted like being alone and alone and alone for an eternity.

“Shit, Sammy, what happened? I’m gonna call an ambulance, just take care of yourself meanwhile. Sam? Sammy? Talk to me, what’s going on?” Dean’s tongue almost tripped over the words as they jumbled out of his mouth and for a second Sam was so sure he could hear the pounding of his brother’s heart echoing through his own chest.

“No ambulance, not hurt,” Sam sobbed and felt so pathetic and miserable it made his cheeks burn with shame. “I’m… Dean, please… I can’t do this a-any longer,”

There was frantic movement on the other end of the line. “Sam, stay exactly where you are, I’m gonna… I’m coming for you, I’m right there.”

“Nooooo-” Sam whined and curled into himself, phone pressed to his ear, his huge body folded into a tiny ball of grief and snot and stinging tears, with a lump in his throat as big as China and a weight pressing down his chest until he couldn’t bring himself to move anymore. “Dean… don’t, it’s late. Dad-”

“Dad’s not here.” Dean mumbled and his voice suddenly sounded as weary as Sam felt. “I’m gonna be there in an hour, just hold on Sammy, _hold on_. I’m coming for you, just stay exactly where you are.”

There was a loud thud from a car door being slammed shut. “I’m coming for you, Sammy.” And with that the engine of the Impala kicked into life, the sound marking the beginning of the longest hour in Sam’s life.

Sam was still on the floor when he heard his brother’s heavy footfalls on the floor, Dean’s boots scraping against the wood of the staircase like he couldn't be bothered to lift them properly anymore.

“Sammy?” a gruff voice asked and Sam felt his chest flutter, his heart daring to burst out of his ribcage with every frantic beat; a tiny, chattering bird with broken wings and a hole in its head.

“In here,” Sam replied, his voice raw from crying and screaming, throat sore with all the unheard, wasted pleas he had spilled into the unforgiving floor.

Dean bolted through the door like a whirlwind, his body moving with the force of a thunderstorm and his bottle green eyes clouded with a hundred nights deprived of sleep and peace. “Sam,” he squinted against the darkness and fumbled for a light switch, his voice tight, _so tight,_ with sorrow. The same sorrow that burned its way through Sam’s veins like acid until he was nothing more than an empty shell.

“’M here,” Sam whimpered so utterly defeated.

“Sammy _,_ ” It sounded almost like a prayer and it was rather fitting as Dean fell to knees seconds later, his hands searching for the ball of tear-stained warmth on the floor. “ _My Sammy_ ,” another plea, a whispered orison; not unheard, not unavailingly given and forgotten in the face of eternity, but embraced and cherished like the first ray of golden sunshine after an endless decade of winter.

“ _Dean_.” And then there was no time for words anymore, no space for excuses or apologies and the moment Dean clutched to Sam and Sam clutched to Dean, their chests moving together, heaving, hearts stuttering inside of their broken ribcages, their universe was finally whole again.

And when later that night their trembling bodies melted into one, Sam could see, after what felt like forever, the sun and the stars again.


	8. Untitled IV

“That’s a good boy,” Dean mumbles as soon as he sits down in the cozy armchair right behind his little brother. Sam is naked, like he had been for the last hour, and his skin is covered in a slick sheen of sweat. There are hickeys blooming along his jawline and down the slender curve of his neck, the reddened, abused skin flushed with heat and what is left of the boy’s embarrassment.

“Dean,” Sam whimpers and Dean chuckles low in his throat. He’s still fully clothed, a pair of old jeans riding low on his hips and trapping his aching, weeping cock until he feels sharp metal teeth pressing into the strained flesh. His briefs are soaked with the sight of his little brother being so ready and willing for him and he has to palm his cock through the denim to somewhat regain his composure.

“What do you want, Sammy?” he asks and wiggles his ass in an attempt to get comfortable in the soft cushions, his eyes never leaving the slender form of his beautiful brother in front of him, all naked and shaking and _his_.

Sam keens and there’s a shiver running down his spine before he replies. “Touch me, Dean.”

He’s clean shaven, like Dean wants him to be, and his sun-kissed skin is covered in goosebumps when he speaks, his hair a mess around his pretty face. He’d already come four times during the last hour, one time dry, and yet his cock is still hard, jutting out from under his flat belly and bobbing against his navel with every movement. Pre-come, salty and viscous, is mingling with the sweat on his stomach and Dean can barely restrain himself from tasting his little brother again, sucking that beautiful flushed cock in and licking the pink tip until he gets the creamy surprise.

“Where do you want me to touch you, Sammy?”

Sam whines. “God, Dean please-”

Dean’s throat works and spills another chuckle into the damp air of the ratty motel room before he can manage to answer. “Be a good boy and show me, will you?”

There’s a moment when Sam’s body stills and he tilts his head back to give his brother a pleading look, allowing Dean a long, thorough look on the boy’s beautiful face: plush, pink lips, swollen from kissing, high boned cheeks, so prettily flushed and covered by golden skin, dotted with sweet little moles and above all a pair of astonishing hazel eyes, glazed over with lust and the need to get off. _Again._

“C’mon Sammy, you promised to do as I say, remember? And tomorrow it’s my turn to do as you please.”

“Promise?” Sam replies and a devilish grin curls his lips, tainting the angelic face.

Dean nods, the raging hard-on in his pants still trapped in the painfully tight jeans. “I promise.”

It seems to be enough to convince the boy and without another question he turns around again, leaving his brother with the sight of Sam’s beautiful backside. “I want you to touch me here,” Sam murmurs quietly after a few seconds and slides his hands down his flanks, slowly stroking downward. He drags his nails across his ribs and shudders as he trails south.

“I want that, too,” Dean admits and watches his brother’s jaw clench, his teeth grinding against each other when he chokes out a moan. Sam’s fingers are long and slender as they ghost over his skin tenderly, approaching the swell of his ass.

“And here,” Sam continues, shivering, and feels a mix of pre-come, come and Dean’s saliva dripping from the tip of his cock and soaking into the floor. His palms are cupping his butt now and he kneads the soft flesh a few times before he slowly, _oh so slowly_ , starts spreading the cheeks to reveal the tight hole. “And here, I-” he swallows hard. “I-I want you to touch me here, Dean,”

Dean almost comes right there and he has to close his eyes for a split second to gather his self-control again, his body shaking with want. “Yeah, I want that, too, Sammy,” he breathes and rubs his clammy palms across the hard - _fucking hard-_ bulge in his crotch in an desperate attempt to ease the tension. “ _Fuck_ , I really fucking want that,”

Sam’s hands continue to knead and spread the cheeks, blunt nails digging into smooth skin, and he moans low in is throat, a sound so desperate and needy it makes Dean’s heart flutter. “I want you to touch my hole Dean,” Sam pleads and he dares another look over his shoulder, his pupils dilated and his lips parted, the soft flesh slick with saliva. “I want you to finger me, god _please_ finger me, Dean. Fuck me with your fingers, fuck me open, please. I feel so empty,” he continues and presses a thumb against his twitching hole, the tight muscle already smeared with sweat and saliva.

“Sammy,” Dean keens and suddenly there’s urgency in his moves, his blood thundering beneath his skin and setting every inch of his body on fire, burning skin, bone and muscle and leaving nothing but feral _want_ in its wake. He unbuckles his belt with shaky fingers and watches Sam thumbing along his needy little hole again, teasing and circling the soft pink rim fondly.

“I want you to finger me open,” the boy mutters as Dean pops the button of his jeans open, yanking down the zipper violently. “Want you to make me ready, Dean, finger me until I’m loose and open for your cock. Please Dean, don’t make me wait a-any longer,” Sam keens and casts his head back, his shaggy chestnut hair cascading down his neck and shoulders, exposing his vulnerable throat. “Fuck me Dean, fill me. God, I’m so empty. Fuck me, Dean,” he breathes and then suddenly Dean is on his feet and right behind his little brother, his jeans shoved down until they pool around the hunter’s ankles.

“Sammy,” he moans and finally presses his body flush against his little brother’s, his weeping cock riding the crack of Sam’s beautiful butt. “I’m here, I got you,”

“I know.” Sam breathes and shivering he leans against the solid wall of heat in his back, his hands abandoning the wanton flesh of his butt to snake around Dean’s neck, holding on tight when he feels Dean’s rough fingertips pressing against his hole.

“Gonna make you ready now, finger you open,” Dean promises and nuzzles Sam’s neck. “You were such a good boy, gonna give you what you want.”

Then the world becomes a blur, Sam’s eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of getting ravished and consumed by his brother’s heat until his throat is sore from moaning and screaming. And when Dean whispered “Gonna fuck you now, little brother,” there is nothing else Sam can do than nod and push back against the hot, slick cock against his tight, twitching hole.

 


	9. Untitled V

When Sam watched Dean jerking off for the first time he thought it was the most beautiful sight in the world. Dean’s mouth hanging slightly open, those gorgeous full lips parted to release soft moans into the damp motel room air, he looked like an epiphany arose from Sam’s wettest dreams and the boy had to bury his fingers into the rough denim of his pants to keep himself from _touching_.

Dean knelt on the mattress and had shed most of his clothing, leaving a messy trail of socks, briefs and jeans on the mud-stained rug in front of the bed. An open plaid shirt hung loosely around his shoulders, playing around his waist and offering a mouthwatering look on miles and miles of soft skin blotched with honeyed freckles.

“Enjoying yourself over there?”Dean murmured and a smirk crept across his face, lighting up the bottle green eyes under a fan of golden lashes.

Sam nodded, gulping, and felt his cock stirring in his pants, the half-hard flesh straining against his boxers and demanding attention.

“Well, keep watching then,” the boy on the bed offered and with a wink he returned his attention to himself and the hand that fisted around his cock, moving lazily up and down. He had used beads of pre-come to slick his fingers and Sam could see the salty droplets gleam in the streaming sun light like a thread of pearls covering the velvety skin around the hot, hard flesh between Dean’s palms. Sam gasped quietly when he focused on his big brother’s dick, staring at the dark pink tip Dean revealed with every slow downturn. It pulsated and twitched between the boy’s fingers, spilled more pre-come, leaking out of the tiny slit and Sam found himself staring, dumbfounded, eyes glued to the thick crown of Dean’s cock, the gentle curve and the balls that hung heavy between his brother’s thighs.

“You can come closer,” Dean rasped eventually and with another lopsided smile he sped up just a little bit, his breath now coming in short, ragged gasps. “Nothing to be shy about.”

Sam nodded wide-eyed and it took him only a few seconds until he gathered the courage to take a few, hesitant steps forward. His throat felt dry and he swallowed a moan when he glanced over Dean’s toned stomach, the muscles that rippled underneath the smooth skin, bunching and stretching with the steady movements of his brother’s hand. It was a beautiful sight, all new and exciting, and Sam felt burning desire tingling beneath his skin, his fingers itching with the need to touch, to caress, to explore. He trembled.

“God Sammy, it feels so good,” Dean moaned and began to jerk himself off in earnest, his fingers flying along his thick length and his thumb pressing into the leaking slit. His cheeks were flushed, the pink skin a beautiful contrast to the golden freckles, and his pupils dilated despite the bright afternoon light until almost every inch of the mossy green was swallowed by pitch black nothingness.

“Dean,” Sam mumbled involuntarily and finally gave in to the urge to touch, his hands trailing up to his brother’s face and cupping his warm cheeks before they slid into Dean’s dirty blond hair.

“Sammy _don’t_ , I’m gonna come all over you,” Dean warned and his fist tightened around his cock, the wet sound of slick skin against hard flesh getting louder in the breathless silence of the motel room. He moved frantically now, desperate, and his body went rigid under the building pressure coursing through his veins.

Sam moaned quietly. “Don’t care, De,” he breathed and nuzzled his brother’s neck, inhaling the musky scent with a shiver. He kept his hands buried in Dean’s hair and found himself unfazed by the fact that he clung to his big brother while he jerked himself off.

“Hnngh Sammy, I’m close, I’m fucking close,” Dean tried again, shuddering under the young boy’s weight pressing down on him, and for a split second he felt like drowning, his chest constricting painfully, clenching hard around his heart.

But then Dean heard Sam, heard him whisper “You’re so beautiful, Dean.” and “I love you.” and the orgasm that tore through him like a thunderstorm swept him away, washing over him and leaving nothing but his exhausted shell in the arms of his little brother— the brother who held his heart in his small hands.

 


	10. Untitled VI

When Sammy was five years old he got sick.

It started with a call from the kindergarten and a concerned voice explaining to Dean that his little brother didn’t felt well. Apparently he had gotten sick all over another kid’s toy and was feverish, his tiny body shaken by waves of ague. “I’m gonna come and get him.” Dean had said, pressing the speaker tight against his ear until the panic-fueled beating of the frantic heart inside his chest slowly ebbed away, before grabbing his stuff and racing towards the kindergarten— where a miserable Sam waited for him at the front door. He was wearing one of Dean’s old sweaters, ratty and worn thin around the collar, and his bare toes curled into themselves as he hold on to the door frame with tiny, balled fists. His face was wet with tears, hazel eyes red-rimmed and puffy and glazed with fever, and his cheeks looked pale.

“Hey buddy,” Dean chanted and was about to muss up Sam’s hair in a way of greeting, but his little brother beat him to it and with a whimper he leaped forward, clinging to Dean’s legs and nuzzling the rough denim of his jeans.

“De,” he sniveled and his little body shook under the force of the wet sobs that wrung out of his tiny chest. “I ruined Amy’s teddy bear.”

It took Dean only a single heartbeat to catch up with what his little brother was trying to tell him and with a deep sigh he bend down, picking the shaking boy up and gathering him into his arms. “Shhh, it’s okay, Sammy. It wasn’t your fault, okay? You didn’t feel well, is all.”

“But she cried because of me,” Sam insisted and his eyes grew wide with a new wash of tears streaming down his cheeks.

Dean’s smile was soft and he focused solely on the little shaking bundle in his arms when he replied. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. I’m sure she was just surprised and won’t be mad at you for long. Do you wanna go and say sorry?”

Sam shook his head instead of replying and buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, his cheeks hot and wet against the nine year old boy’s skin.

“Well okay, maybe when you’re feeling better again?” Dean mumbled after a few seconds of silence and with a quiet sigh he gathered Sam’s backpack and shoes into his free arm, waved the two worried looking woman, who were in charge of Sam during his kindergarten-time, goodbye, and left with his little brother in his arms, heading towards their current home.

The motel was, after a series of crappy rooms with wet rugs and broken furniture, actually quite nice for once and Dean was more than relived when he found an extra blanket coiled up in the big drawer of the bedroom closet. He had carried Sam all the way home and now his arms were shaking, his forehead covered in sticky sweat, but he didn’t allow himself to rest.

“Do you want to eat something?” he asked after wrapping his brother in the soft fabric and placing him on the sofa, his eyes never leaving Sam’s reddened face. The little boy shrugged as a new wave of ague crashed against his tiny body, shaking him thoroughly and making him look even more miserable.

“I can go and get some-”

“No,” Sam cut in as soon as he realized what Dean was about to say. “Don’t go, please De.”

Dean nodded, but insisted nevertheless. “But we have to get you some tea, I guess. And there’s no food left besides some bread and a few pickles.”

Sam shook his head almost violently and the shaggy bangs loosed from his sweat-covered forehead with the urgent motion. “No, I’m not hungry, Dean. Please, don’t go.” he whined and suddenly his eyes were filled with tears again, thick, shimmering droplets rolling down his flushed cheeks and soaking into the warm blanket.

Dean sighed. “Alright, Sammy. I’m gonna stay here,” he agree and decided to delay his shopping tour until Sam was asleep. “Let’s watch some TV together.”

Sam nodded, tears still falling, and after getting his brother a bottle of cold water, Dean returned to the sofa.

“Move,” he mumbled and when his little brother did as told, Dean squeezed himself between the soft cushions and the tiny boy, pulling the shaking body in his lap. “Here, drink and try to get some sleep. You’ll be better soon.”

Sam grabbed the offered water and drank in long, thirsty gulps. “You promise?” he asked after he had finished the entire bottle.

“Promise.” Dean replied and flipped the TV on without watching. “You’re just a little bit tired, is all.”

Sam made a small sound, something between a sob and a grunt, and snuggled deeper into the blanket and his brother’s arms, pressing his face into the crook of Dean’s neck once again and for the first time in about an hour he stopped shaking.

“Do you really think Amy is gonna forgive me?” he asked after a few seconds of content silence. He had shoved his tiny hands into the short hair in the nape of Dean’s neck, warm fingers playing idly with the soft strands.

“Course, Sammy. I’m sure she was at some point sick, too. Things like that happen, nothing to worry about. “

Sam sighed and his body trembled with exhaustion and misery in Dean’s arms. “Doesn’t happen to you,” he replied, snuffling.

“First time I got sick Dad had to stop at a gas station and clean the whole Impala.” Dean smirked and pressed his face in the soft, shaggy hair of his little brother, inhaling the familiar scent.

“Really?”

“Yeah, happens to the best of us.”

Sam let out a long sigh and relaxed further into the tight embrace of his brother, his eyelids growing heavier with every passing second. He still felt sick in his tummy and also incredibly hot, his skin burning against the blanket, but Dean made him feel better, made him feel safe, and slowly he dozed off, face buried in his big brother’s neck and hands still balled into the soft, dirty-blond hair.

“That’s it, Sammy,” Dean mumbled as soon as he felt Sam’s body getting heavy in his arms and he dropped a chaste kiss on top of the boy’s head. “Sleep, Sammy, sleep.” And he continued to rub small circles across his brother’s back, cradling the small body in his arms until he could hear the deep and steady inhales of the shaking bundle in his arms.

Later when Sam had woken up, Dean had gone to the grocery store and they ate pasta out of a can. Dean had helped Sam into the tub and after scrubbing his skin clean from sweat and the smell of sick Sam felt better. He drank the tea Dean had prepared without complaining and by dawn he was exhausted and tired again, but at least his forehead didn’t smoldered anymore.

They settled on the sofa again, TV running quietly in the background, when Dean grabbed a small package from the floor to hand it to the little boy who was wearing fresh PJ bottoms and Dean’s favorite shirt and currently got comfortable in his lap.

“I was gonna wait until your birthday to give you these, but since you had such a bad day…” Dean’s voice trailed off and he shrugged.

“Sugar cookies?” Sam asked incredulously, eyes wide in wonder while he inspected the package.

Dean nodded. “I thought you might wanna have one?”

Sam’s whole face lit up and for a split second Dean felt his heart flutter in his chest, his ribcage suddenly to tight for the wild creature underneath the heaving bones. “ _Really,_ Dean? I can have one?”

“Sure, they’re all yours, Sammy.”

With another bright smile and fingers that now shook from anticipation than from fever Sam opened the package almost devotional. He pulled out a cookie and was about to take a bite when he suddenly stopped in what he was doing, leaning his forehead against Dean’s instead.

“You’re the best brother one could have,” he whispered and his bangs brushed across Dean’s temples. “Thank you.” And with that he pressed a chaste kiss on his brother’s mouth, both their lips hot and dry and Dean felt like he was falling.


	11. Untitled VII

[art by the wonderful [queencurry](http://queencurry.tumblr.com/)]

Sam loves to ride Dean. He just likes it. The way he has control over the pace and the angle, the way it feels when he impales himself on his brother’s cock and of course the way Dean looks. His face twisted in pleasure and his brows furrowed in utter concentration, every honeyed freckle a stark contrast to his flushed cheeks, Dean looks like the epitome of the word ‘beautiful’. Bottle green eyes, a gently curved nose and plush lips lead Sam’s gaze down to a broad chest, golden skin covering firm pecs and a toned stomach. Muscles ripple underneath the smooth surface, bunching and stretching with every movement and Sam can barely believe that this gorgeous boy is his to touch and kiss and love.

“Dean, _Dean_ ,” he moans softly, his voice needy and rough, and leans in for a messy kiss. He can feel his brother’s cock moving inside him, stretching his slick walls and filling his aching hole until he’s completely stuffed.

“It’s okay Sammy, you’re fine. I got you,” Dean sighs against Sam’s mouth and swipes his tongue across his brother’s sweet lips, soothing the boy’s trembling nerves with a lazy kiss. His eyes are always open, wide and glassy, and fixed on Sam’s face as if he’s afraid to miss the moment Sam’s world will explode.

“You’re doing so good, Sammy.” he chants as he thrusts upward and his hands clasp Sam’s thighs, rough thumbs rubbing small circles in the soft flesh. “Does it still feel good? Do you want to change positions?”

Sam barely manages to shake his head, his shaggy bangs sticking to his forehead as he arches his back, fully sheathing Dean inside his wet heat. “N-no, Dean, ‘s perfect,” he slurs and there’s a string of moans and pleas falling from his lips as he races towards the edge that’ll send him flying.

“G-good, cause I’m close, Sam,” Dean replies and pushes even deeper into his little brother. “Gonna come inside you, okay?”

This time Sam just nods, teeth buried in his lower lip, and with a strangled moan, he slams down for a last time before coming all over Dean’s stomach. There are stars exploding behind Sam’s closed lids and he shudders as his sweet relief washes over him, carrying him away while he paints his brother’s skin in white ropes of come.

Dean follows seconds later, every muscle in his body going rigid and only now he squeezes his eyes shut, head falling into the pillow and come spurting inside Sam’s body. “I love you,” he whispers, breathless, and clings to his little brother when Sam falls into his embrace, their bodies trembling and hearts racing in synch beneath their heaving chests.

 


	12. Untitled VIII

Sam was twelve years old when Dean kissed him for the first time. Well, not really, because actually Dean was kissing him all the time. But it was the first time their kissed like the people on TV did when they were really happy. Or really desperate.

Their kiss wasn’t desperate, but new and exciting and Sam felt his heart flutter in his chest as Dean’s tongue slid along his own, snaking inside Sam’s mouth and slowly teasing the wet warmth. A little chuckle formed in the back of Sam’s throat and he tried to reciprocate eagerly, his little tongue wiggling and tasty and mapping out the silken heat of his brother’s mouth. Dean tasted like sleep and minty toothpaste and Sam decided to like it. His lips were soft as they moved slowly against Sam’s, plush like a pillow and it tickled when they brushed across the little boy’s skin. He sighed longingly.

“Mnnnh, Sammy,” Dean moaned as they separated again and it made Sam shudder, his hands slowly finding their way to Dean’s hair and entangling with the soft strands. “Taste so good, little brother.”

Sam smiled. “I had pie for breakfast,” he giggled and leaned in for another taste, chasing the touch and smell and warmth of his big brother with his lips, his fingers idly playing with Dean’s hair.

 


	13. Untitled IX

When Dean first found the Polaroid camera in the closets of their current ‘home’ he thought it was useless. He never cared much about photographs to keep memories vivid, photographs could get lost so easily. One swift motion and they’d slip out of your pocket, vanishing into thin air. Photographs were boring, just a stale memory of what was once; colorless, lifeless, useless. Photographs were for people who could afford a quiet lifestyle, far away from fighting and hunting and covering your hands in the blood of every possible and impossible creature. Photographs were for normal families.

But when he woke up the next morning, rays of golden sunlight streaming in through the curtains and his little brother curled up beside him, Dean couldn’t help but think about the camera again. Because with Sam lying there, still half asleep, his body heavy with slumber, his cock lying hard and thick and proud against his gray shirt and warm morning light dancing along the gentle curve of his thighs, it wasn’t hard to understand the urge to capture a moment on paper to keep it safe it for the rest of eternity.

Carefully Dean got on his feet and snatched the camera from where he had dropped it the previous night into a drawer, a soft moan climbing out of his chest as he spied through the viewfinder. “So beautiful,” he whispered and with Sam in focus, legs spread, eyes half-open and lips parted in a small smile as he slowly cupped his balls, Dean pressed the button under his finger with a quiet click.

“You’re a pervert,” Sam mumbled into the pillow as he tugged gently on his cock before giving it a lazy stroke.

“I know.” And with the picture in hand and his beautiful brother waiting for him, Dean returned to the bed, kneeling down on the mattress and slowly kissing his way up Sam’s body.

And when he later grabbed the picture from the nightstand to tuck it away in his wallet, safely hidden behind the unraveled seam, no one but Sam needed to know, right?

 


	14. Untitled X

Tonight’s hunt had been a mess and Dean knew it. And though he’d steeled himself, it still stung like a bitch when Dad scolded him for not being good enough. “You can’t just stand around, being useless,” he spat and dismissed his son with a grunt, leaving the motel for a couple of beers at the local bar.

And Dean? Dean did what he always did when everything sucked and life gave him a kick in the teeth. He quietly stepped into the bedroom and stripped down to his underwear before slipping under the covers of the king-sized bed. Greeted by the heat of his brother’s naked body he carefully pressed closer, shuffling and wiggling until he lay flush against Sam.

“Hey, brother,” Sam mumbled sleepily and immediately leaned into the familiar touch.

Dean didn’t answer, inhaling Sam’s sweet scent instead— and he didn’t need to. Without knowing what had happened, Sam had long sensed Dean’s unease and with a soft sigh he pulled him in, gathering the hunter in his arms and holding him close. He let his brother touch him, warm palms ghosting over bare skin, kneading the soft flesh of his butt, and nimble fingers stroking up and down his flanks while Dean buried his face against the boy’s chest.

“Shhhh, it’s okay, Dean,” Sam mumbled and dropped sweet kisses on his brother’s head, fingers intertwining with short hair. “It’s alright, it’s gonna be okay. I promise. I’m here, I got ya.” And he coiled up around his big brother, feeling Dean’s hands caressing every inch of his naked body while he slowly rocked them back and forth, cooing sweet nothings until they both fell asleep.

 


	15. Untitled XI

Sam heard them.

Heard them while he was coiled up under a pile of pillows and the cool covers of their bedroom. He heard them argue, Dad with his gruff voice, words thick with sarcasm and made to hurt and break, every sentence a blow below the belt. And Dean, his tongue tripping over itself in an desperate attempt to apologize, words hushed and low and… _wet._

Eventually their voices died down and the loud thud of a door slammed shut signaled Dad’s departure, leaving his boys to their own devices and his oldest son where he was seated at the kitchen table, hands buried in his hair, shoulders hunched and eyes squeezed shut.

And that’s how Sam found him after he’d slipped out of the bed and into one of Dean’s shirts, the worn-thin fabric hanging loosely around little brother’s lanky frame. Slowly he’d pushed the door open, bathing the dark bedroom in a bright streak of warm light, and his smile had dropped at the sight of his brother’s faltered composure.

“Dean,” Sam breathed and slowly -slowly as if not to spook the seemingly distressed man at the table- approached his brother. His fingers found their way into disheveled, dirty-blond strands and there was a small sound of relief spilling past Dean’s lips as he straightened up.

“Heya Sammy,” he mumbled, wiping a few droplets of red from his nose.

“You hurt?”

“Nah, just a few scratches,” Dean tried a smile, failing miserably. Words stuck in his chest, his eyes prickling with unshed tears, he felt like something - _or someone_ \- was strangling him from behind and he was so goddamn close to choke.

“I’ll patch you up,” Sam whispered without heat as he combed his long, slender fingers through his brother’s hair, gently rubbing his scalp. He was about to get their supplies when he felt Dean’s hands on the bare skin of his thighs, warm palms sliding against soft flesh and holding him in place.

“Don’t,” Dean mumbled and pushed the stool a few inches back. “Please. Just… let me,”

Dean’s voice was low, the bridge of his nose bruised, his hands rough and his eyes glassy and beautiful when he slipped his fingers beneath the too long shirt around Sam’s lithe body, hooking them in the waistband of little brother’s black panties. “Let me… please,”

And Sam nodded, his body already aching to be consumed by his brother, his skin yielding against the warm palms sliding down his thighs, dragging the panties along. “Yeah,” he wheezed and his eyes bored into Dean’s, hazel melting into emerald, washing away the tears so easily.

The delicate fabric of the panties dropped to the dirty motel room floor with a soft whisper and Dean took his time caressing Sam’s legs, his fingers trailing up and down the warm, smooth skin so tenderly. It was like Dean was trying to memorize every inch of Sam’s thighs that night and he didn’t stop worshipping his little brother for a long time, finger tips gently tracing every mole, every sleep line and every faded bruise he could get hold of with such promising determination it had Sam lift up on his tiptoes.

“So beautiful,” Dean muttered eventually and smiled -smiled with blood crusted around his nose and lower lip split in two- before he dared to pull his little brother into his lap, Sam carefully straddling Dean.

“De,” Sam whined and felt his cock twitch beneath the smooth fabric of Dean’s Led Zeppelin shirt.

Dean’s reply was a soft, cooing sound in the back of his throat and another smile and his fingers found their way to Sam’s thighs again, now sliding up to meet little brother’s weeping cock.

Warm fingers cupped Sam’s balls and the boy moaned softly, hips bucking and head falling back. Feeling as safe as can be in the embrace of his big brother, Sam thought about how handsome Dean still was, bruised and battered like that, a little rough around the edges but still of such fierce beauty it had Sam’s heart race and his stomach flutter.

“Sammy,” Dean muttered as his fingers curled around his brother’s cock, thumb pressing into the leaking slit to gather beads of sticky pre-come. “Look at me. Lemme see your face,”

Sam complied. With his lips slightly parted, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed from the heat that thundered beneath his sun-kissed skin, the boy let his chin fall to his chest with a moan. His hair was disheveled from the pillows and it brushed his forehead and Dean smiled again.

“Sam— _Sammy_ ,” he whined and slowly started to jerk his little brother off, hands gentle and every pull a warm promise of sweet relief.

Then the whole world narrowed down. Skin yielding against skin, their bodies yearning, hearts gently thud-thud-thudding against their heaving chests and eyes boring into each other as if to memorize every second, make it last. They didn’t kiss, though their lips ached for the familiar brush of soft flesh— but Sam’s throat was tight and soft little moans climbed out of his chest and Dean wanted to listen.

And that he did. Slick fingers wrapped around Sam’s cock, thumb swirling around the sensitive tip and little, shushing sounds fell from his lips as he drank it all in: the sight, the heavy weight in his palm, the warmth rising between them and the ghost of Sam’s breath on his face.

“Shhh, s’alright, you can come.” Dean breathed eventually and gave his wrist a gentle twist. “Come for me, s’okay.”

Sam didn’t last long. His body quivering in Dean’s lap, arms carefully hooked around big brother’s shoulders and eyes going wide, he came after another couple of slow strokes, Dean’s name on his lips and warm splashes of come soaking the Zeppelin-shirt.

There were a few beats of silence, nothing but Sam’s soft panting hanging in the air between them, and Dean felt light-headed as if it was his orgasm rippling through the lithe body in his lap— not Sam’s. Sticky with come, he untangled his fingers from little brother’s cock, feeling Sam wincing under the touch.

“Thanks, Sammy,” he breathed and as suddenly the exhaustion of tonight’s hunt kicked in, he let his head fall against his brother’s chest, face buried in the familiar scent and the soothing warmth of body heat.

“’S alright,” Sam mumbled, dropping a bunch of sweet, warm kisses into Dean’s hair. “Let’s go to sleep.”

And Dean didn’t protest.


	16. "Good boy."

Sam watched his own reflection in the full length mirror as he slowly knelt down, relishing the heat that coiled down his spine. With his knees bent, his face was almost at level with big brother’s thighs.

“That’s right, boy,” Dean drawled, stepping closer until their bodies were mere inches apart. He was wearing the same suit as Sam, black and snug around his well-toned form, smooth fabric clinging to bunching muscles and soft flesh. Looking all chaste, divine almost, only the hungry look on his face betrayed the persuasion of the blinding white priest collar around his neck.

Chuckling he patted his brother’s head and Sam watched with intent as the bottle green of Dean’s eyes was slowly consumed by all-engulfing, mesmerizing blackness. “Gotta take care of your hair, Sammy,” Dean continued and sent a trail of goosebumps down his brother’s neck as he slowly combed his fingers trough the silken chestnut mane. “Gotta make it look all pretty and proper. Don’t want anyone to suspect you’re not a father, right?”

Sam nodded, gulping, and pushed back against the playful touch as blunt nails gently scratched his scalp, adding a tingling sensation to the slow burn beneath his skin. He agreed breathily. “Yeah,”

“ _Good_. Good boy,” Dean mumbled and the smile on his lips turned feral as he pushed closer again, almost violently crowding into Sam’s space, clasping the hair brush tight before narrowing his sole focus on the boy kneeling in front of the mirror.

Dean’s hands were ardency, his body a wall of blazing heat in Sam’s back. Like tiny sparks of crackling embers prickling along little brother’s skin, licking, bathing him in naked flames and eating away at flesh and muscle, it bled into his bones and torched him like wildfire. It was agonizing, excruciating, haunting and every inch of Sam longed for it, his skin yearning to be set on fire until there was nothing left of him but ashes and scorching breath. A plea fell from his lips and Dean crooned again, his touch reassuring and steady as he worked the brush through Sam’s hair, slowly turning the soft strands into velvet, watching it cascading down the man’s neck, fanning across the patch of sun-kissed skin right above the priest’s collar.

“What do you want, huh?” Dean muttered without letting go, fingers, brush and nails gently scraping Sam’s scalp.

The boy whined again. “Please,” His throat seemed to work on its own, his chest so impossibly tight. “Please, Dean,”

“Sammy, you— _huh_?”

Sam didn’t even realize he’d moved, didn’t noticed his head jerking around until he firmly pushed his face into the hunter’s crotch, hands desperately clutching Dean’s thighs. “Brother,” he moaned and inhaled deeply, drinking it all in: the heat, the heady scent, the smooth fabric of too tight suit pants against his flushed cheeks and the sharp gasp climbing out of Dean’s chest.

“Sammy, that’s not-”

“Please, _brother_ , let me,” Sam cut in and slowly he started to move, cheeks and chin pressing against the hard bulge between Dean’s thighs and his tongue darting out to lap at the cool fabric.

The hunter’s moan was hushed as he replied, a throaty “Yeah,” into the silence of the motel room, and it didn’t took him long to find a rhythm along little brother’s movements, their bodies rutting together in a leisurely pace. Lazily his fingers entangled with Sam’s silken hair, hips stuttering and cock weeping as he felt the boy’s wet tongue through the layers of fabric, licking and sucking, soft lips rubbing against strained flesh and soaking his pants thoroughly, drenching it in hot saliva until there was a damp patch cresting Dean’s crotch.

“S-Sammy,” Dean wheezed as he felt his brother nuzzling impossibly closer, every inch of his beautiful face buried between Dean’s thighs, cheeks flushed and hair now disheveled again, his eyes fluttered shut and his motions a delicious friction against big brother’s cock and balls and- _goddamn_ , Dean was about to cream his pants like a fucking teenager.

But then Sam pulled back, lips swollen and eyes bright, his chest heaving underneath the tight black suit as he shyly looked up. “Okay, I… I’m good,” he mumbled and the tips of his ears turned pink, matching the pretty shade blooming on his cheeks.

Dean’s brows furrowed. “Look at you, baby boy,” he scolded softly and pointed at the mirror, calling Sam’s attention to the mess he’d made of his hair with rubbing his head into Dean’s crotch. “Now I have to start all over again.”

Sam pouted, then cracked a small smile. “I’m sorry. I just needed to… feel…”

Dean hands returned to little brother’s hair almost involuntarily, his fingers drawn to the soft strands like moth to distant moon, and he smiled softly against both their reflections in the mirror. “My little slut,” he mumbled before resuming his work, eyes never leaving Sam’s and his aching hard cock brushing against Sam’s neck with every firm stroke.


	17. Brother, mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> boyking!Sam and his first knight take revenge on an angel who attempted to take Sam's life earlier. It's a little bit gory though.

Sam Winchester, the darling child of hell, sits on his throne when the message arrives. He's playing with a tiny bird, a sparrow with a sharp beak and glossy black eyes, and pays the lesser demon spawn no heed as it rasps down the words.

“So, that son of a bitch is finally caught?” Sam sneers as soon as the hissing voice falls silent.

The demon brat bows down even deeper, nose brushing the boyking's precious feet, and Sam lazily kicks the vessel away again, back down in the dirt where it belongs.

“Yes, my king,” Is the loyal answer and Sam nods, contemplating, before dismissing the squirming maggot with a wave of his hand. The bird chirps at the leisurely motion and Sam makes a cooing noise in the back of his throat, kissing the tiny, feathery head as the sparrow hops into his palm.

A few heartbeats of silence pass before Sam's voice raises like hurricane and every demon ducks its head under the sheer force of thunder in his throat, their backs bending down to pay tribute to their one, _true_ king. “Prepare the ceremony then,” Sam commands and shushes the tiny bird again before setting it down on the bleached bone of his dear throne. “ _He_ will be here soon.”

There's the frantic scrambling of hundreds of feet in the air as the maggots filter out of the halls to busy themselves with the arrangements, flitting away to please their king with their eyes as black as their souls and their chests just as empty.

Alone at last, no sound echoes from the tall walls when Sam gets up. The heat of the pits warms the thick, crimson carpets from underneath and Sam moans softly as he brushes his bare feet against the soft fabric, toes wiggling and soles yielding. His body vibrates with energy and he knows _he_ is close.

_____________

They haven't seen each other in a few days, every second a little eternity, and Sam thinks that it's enough now. Enough of the waiting and longing, enough of the yearning, and while the void inside his chest aches _oh_ so sharply, he draws one impatient breath after another. With a strained smile, Sam closes his eyes so he can hear the ruin thrumming beneath his skin, the steady _thud-thud-thud_ of his heart-so-pure, as decay slowly burns its way through his flesh. He has death carved into his bones and wrath residing in his head. There's blood as thick as lava pulsating inside his veins, painting his insides crimson and fueling the infinite stream of power that surges, flares, licks and sweeps through his every cell throughout the centuries. But time passes like molasses when he's alone and everyday the voices inside his head get louder, high-pitched screams clawing their way out of his rattling skull until it almost splits in two.

And that's why the boyking wastes no time when he catches the first glimpse of his brother at the end of the hallway, his tall form flanked by two giant hellhounds and his eyes shimmering in a glossy black. He has blood down his shirts and blood caked on his boots. Blood stains his hands, even more crests his dear face and nothing looked ever more appealing to the darling child. With wide steps Sam rushes towards the demon-knight, only stopping in front to him to watch Dean fall to his knees.

“My king,” Dean mumbles as he tilts his head, his sticky fingers finding Sam's as he presses wet kisses on the boyking's palm.

“My knight,” Sam greets and giggles at the sensation of a warm tongue licking around his knuckles. He can already feel his chest swelling, his innocent heart fluttering and missing a few beats while he watches his big brother in awe. “Rise,” he pleas and sighs as Dean complies obediently, his every move so graceful and purely made to pay his king tribute. “Did you bring me a gift, _brother mine_?”

Dean's eyes flicker promising as Sam calls the knight by his true name, a glimpse of bottle green in an endless sea of pitch black. “Yes, my king. All wrapped up and ready for you to crack it open.” Dean replies and leans in to brush his lips across the boyking's jaw line, the searing hot touch burning away the hours of loneliness within the blink of an eye, turning them to ashes.

Together they stroll back to the throne, bantering, giggling with anticipation, their shoulders bumping together, their hands intertwining and neither of them paying attention to the hoards of demon-maggots crawling at their feet. The voices inside Sam's head are quiet now, not even mumbling anymore, and he can feel his skin glow with the energy that concusses through him whenever Dean is close, nurturing him, keeping him grounded, every touch a sorely needed anchor. Sam sighs happily as he climbs his throne.

“May I get my present now?” he purrs and watches the knight's lips curl into a cruel smile as he takes his seat at the boyking's feet.

He nods. “Of course, brother dearest,” And then there are more hellhounds spilling into the throne room, dragging a bloody bundle along, their teeth already stained with gore and saliva dribbling into the precious carpet. It's a man they carry, a _vessel_ , and its stomach is already ripped open, the skin lacerated with a sharp blade. _The first blade_. The intestines are shaped into a bow and Sam smiles at the sight, squeezing his brother's hand as he reaches down.

“So, that's the angel who made an attempt to take my life?” the boyking muses as the hellhounds let go of the whimpering man, who's half senseless with pain, his grace simmering through the cracks in his shattered shell. Sam can feel his mood drop at the sight of the pathetic being, squirming at his feet and spilling its guts onto the steps of his throne. “He looks petty.” Sam spits. “I feel almost insulted.”

Dean's touch is warm as he trails his fingers up Sam's leg until they rest on his thigh. “Don't be, Sam. They'll send others in his wake.”

The smile returns to Sam's face at the thought and he tears his attention away from the pathetic excuse for a proper angel, his sole focus laying on his knight again. “Will you slay them for me, _brother mine_?”

“All of them, my king.”

They melt into a soft kiss, lips rubbing against each other and mouths slotting together in a leisurely pace. Their tongues taste and tease with intent and Sam licks deep into the wet cavern of his brother's mouth, relishing the moment before he returns his attention to the whimpering bundle.

“What's your name?” he asks, voice even and fingers slowly combing through his first knight's hair.

“Anael,”

“And are you ready to die, Anael?” Sam continues and cracks a smile as the angel shivers, his vessel wincing under the sheer force of the boyking's presence.

The angel doesn't bother to answer and Sam giggles at the defiant look the warrior of God shoots him. “I take that as a yes,” he coos and then everything happens so very fast. Within the blink of an eye, the boyking is on his feet and the air crackles with energy. Waves of pure power pinprick along the veins of the attendant crowd and a collective pained moan echoes from the walls, every demon ducking away from the aching touch.

“Get him, Sammy,” Dean murmurs and then the air is filled with the music of bones breaking and sinews snapping. Muscles slowly lacerate under the darling child's twist of fingers, skin peels from flesh and bone and eventually the man's screams fade into gurgling noises. He gasps for air, but the blood that boils up in his throat makes him gag instead. He doesn't beg for mercy, not even when his lungs collapse, and just lies there, listening to the symphony of his own body being crushed under the boyking's innocent touch.

“I like him,” Sam whispers and feels a heavy sigh falling from his lips. Dean's palms are warm when he presses them against little brother's chest, reassuring him quietly, pushing him over the brink just to catch him again.

“See it done,” he whispers soothingly and Sam complies. With a last surge of power he cracks the vessel's head open to release what's left of the heavenly creature. A pulse of celestial grace vibrates in the thick air as the angel frantically tries to escape, but it's already too late and the precious boyking laughs softly as he lures the twitching energy into his palm.

“It's beautiful,” he breathes and Dean agrees with a nod.

“It will look even more beautiful when it sits where it belongs, brother dearest,” the knight slurs and watches with intent as the darling child conducts the pulsating, squirming grace onto his head, where it melts into the crown that winds around Sam Winchester's precious head since the beginning of time. And here it will stay, condemned to crest the boyking's head, thoroughly rooted in the bloodied thorns, acknowledged by many but touched by only one.

**Author's Note:**

> Most of those ficlets are roughly beta'd by myself or the incredible [Heather](http://sammichgirl.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> [I take prompts!](http://sunflowerbrother.tumblr.com/) Come and say hello anytime. :,)


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